


30 Ways to Wake Your Watsons Up

by ColebaltBlue, fictionforlife



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, M/M, ireallyshouldbedrawing, this is finally happening, wake your watson up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionforlife/pseuds/fictionforlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are hundreds of ways to wake your Watson up.  Here are 30 of them.  (A collaborative art/fic project.  Each chapter is a drawing with an accompanying ficlet)  Doodles by fictionforlife, drabbles/ficlets by Colebaltblue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Experiment gone wrong (or right)

**Author's Note:**

> [Just a quick note, this project has NOT been abandoned. We apologize for not finishing it yet, but one of us got distracted by a brand new baby and the other by some other major RL changes. We have more sketches (of both the word and drawing kind) in the wings and we WILL finish this project. Thanks for your patience.]
> 
> This is a collaborative project. We will post 30 drawings with accompanying 100 word drabbles or 221 word ficlets. New drawings/fic will be posted as new chapters to this work. This is being posted simultaneously on tumblr (ireallyshouldbedrawing.tumblr.com) and here. Enjoy!

* * *

I was trying to be quiet, honestly I was. Watson had retired hours ago and I knew that after the exhausting day he had he would be fast asleep in his bed. But the results of adding the two solutions together was…

Unexpected.

It exploded in my face, more surprising than truly dangerous, but so very loud. I froze for a moment before racing up the stairs and poking my head around Watson’s door. He was picking himself and his bedclothes up off the floor on the far side of his bed.

"Apologies?" I tried as he glared at me.


	2. Injured

* * *

Watson moaned and jerked, ineffectually trying to bat my hands away from his face. I murmured softly, indistinctly, at him as he came awake as I pressed the ice wrapped in a damp cloth against his swollen face. He huffed, his face too painful to make any real expression, of annoyance at being awoken, at being hurt, or even being coddled by me.

"Next time, duck," I said with a smile.

"Next time, don’t pick a fight with a man who has friends," he replied.

"Go back to sleep," I whispered as I held the ice in place.


	3. A New Case

* * *

I awoke to the sounds of someone rummaging in my wardrobe. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to clear them of sleep as I sat up and could make out the shape of Holmes half-buried in there.

"Holmes?" I asked.

"A case!" he exclaimed, throwing a shirt at my face. I sleepily blinked down at my lap where it fell before a more accurately aimed pair of trousers joined it there. 

"Let me guess," I said as I pulled my nightshirt over my head and exchanged it for the clean shirt. "The game’s afoot."

His answering grin told me everything.


	4. Hot Cocoa

* * *

I awoke to my name being urgently whispered and a warm cup of cocoa being pressed into my hand. I raised it cautiously to my lips and was pleased to find it the perfect temperature for drinking. I took a sip and lowered it, looking suspiciously at Holmes. ”What in the world is it now?” I asked. 

"Can’t a man wake his lover with a cup of hot cocoa every now and again without it having to be an emergency, Watson?"

"No," I responded with wryly. 

He sighed, “very well. Watson, I need your revolver and we must be off!”


	5. Indoor Target Practice

* * *

I jerked awake at the first thump that landed startling close to my ear. 

"Don’t move, Watson!" I heard Holmes shout from the hallway.

I cracked my eyes open only to see the still quivering wooden arrow lodged into the sofa inches from my face.

A second one thumped into the pillow near my hip before I had time to react.

"What the devil do you think you’re doing!" I shouted at the madman shooting arrows at me, indoors of all places.

"Just hold still!" he called.

"No you hold still!" I lept up as soon as the third arrow hit, distressingly close to where my feet were curled against the armrest.

Holmes let out a rather undignified yelp and dropped his bow as I scrambled over the back of the sofa towards him, my displeasure showing clearly on my face.

"It was just a spot of harmless archery," he gasped as he struggled up the stairs towards my bedroom. The bastard was laughing.

"Harmless? You call that harmless? You could have hit my-"

"Never! I have impeccable aim!" he said throwing himself into my room and slamming the door shut in my face.

"I’ll show you impeccable aim!" I hollered, pounding on the door.

"Archery champion at Harrow, Watson! Two years running!"

"Boxing champion, Melville College, 5th AND 6th form!"


	6. Retirement Snoozing in the Garden

* * *

The sun was warm, but the sea breeze was cool and soothing. Watson was stretched out on a blanket, his straw hat shielding his eyes, and his book forgotten in his lap. The faint hum of bees hard at work in our garden mingled with his soft snores. I was loath to wake him, but he wasn’t the brown as a nut skinny as a lath boy that he once was and his London-pale skin would burn soon. A drizzle of honey fresh from the hives on his lips and my tongue to lick it off should do the trick.


	7. Post-Case Bragging

* * *

"WATSON!" I startled awake and fell off the sofa onto the floor at the sound of Holmes’s shout and loud bang of the sitting room door flying open and hitting the wall. I found myself trying to calm my racing heart as the world’s only consulting detective strode across the room in a flurry of movement, tossing his hat in the general direction of the hat stand and his coat at the table before he quite literally pounced on me.

"I have done it!" he said, shaking me by the shoulders, face inches from mine. "Colonel Brixton is a liar and a thief and I have the means to prove it! We shall eat well tonight!"

"That is great Holmes, simply wonderful," I said, trying to muster some cheer to my voice, but still reeling from my sudden awakening and rough handling. "But I was just trying to enjoy an afternoon nap after you kept me up half the night with your incessant pacing."

"Nevermind that," he said waving his hands at me. "Did you hear? I’ve solved it!"

"Yes, I heard," I said dryly. "I couldn’t help but hear. I quite frankly had no choice in the matter."

He grinned unrepentantly before he leaned down and gave me the shock of my life by kissing me squarely on the lips.


	8. The Riding Crop

* * *

It was all quite by accident. Initially, at least. We had been invited up to a hunting and shooting party in the countryside by an old friend of Watson’s. Normally I declined to accompany Watson on these little outings, preferring to stay in London of course. But this time I had accepted. The new aspect of our relationship meant I was disinclined to spend a week apart from him, especially when he would be spending it in the company of hale and healthy sporting men.

I had, of course, learned to ride as youngster and so I donned the breeches, boots, and coat that had been long buried in a trunk and joined Watson with hunt cap in hand.

My keen eye caught it all as I joined Watson amongst men on the lawn. The stutter and stop, the widening of the eyes, the quickening of breath, the bob of the adam’s apple, and the sweaty palms when he saw me dressed for the hunt the first time. That night was rather spectacular.

So here it was, months later, and we were happily back in 221B and I was itching for a bit of rough play. Watson was napping as I carefully donned my riding outfit and selected the riding crop. I knelt over him and trailed it across his cheek…


	9. Breaking & Entering

* * *

"A little higher Watson," Holmes said with exasperation. I startled and raised the dark lantern up a bit to its original position - illuminating the lock that Holmes was busy picking.

I looked back over the darkened street and yawned widely. I was falling asleep on my feet after having been kept awake by Holmes for over two days in pursuit of clues for his latest case. 

Everything was silent for a moment except the soft scrape of his tools in the lock and I shook my head hard in an effort to stay awake.

A sharp noise of frustration startled me. I glanced back down, the lantern beam had drifted again. 

"Sorry," I mumbled, but not a few seconds later the locked clicked and the door opened silently.

Holmes looked up at me and grinned. “Shall we?”


	10. Watson-cataloging

* * *

He lay there in the mid-morning sun on the sofa, stretched out, newspaper still in his hands, snoring softly. My Watson had grown lazy and domestic in his middle-age and he was charming, simply charming like this. I paused in my experiment, pulled my lab book closer to me, and picked up my pencil nub.

1\. Falls asleep while reading The Times more often than The Daily Telegraph

2\. Snores while sleeping anywhere but his own bed

3\. Prefers the house slippers I bought him three years ago to the pair Mrs. Hudson bought him for Christmas

4\. Grey hair has begun to make an appearance, but it merely makes him appear more blonde

5\. Has a delightful splash of freckles on his shoulders that I love to kiss, but are currently hidden by a shirt and house coat

6\. Has allowed his moustache to grow frightfully bushy, must encourage him to trim it before it leaves a tell-tale rash on my neck

I stood up and made my way over to him, moving as silent as a cat.

"I could feel you staring at me," he murmured as I approached, a smile tugging at his lips.

"You stopped snoring," I responded as I pulled the paper out of his hands and arranged myself over him. He blinked at me sleepily.


	11. On a Stake-out

* * *

We sat against the brick wall, wrapped in coats, hats pulled low over ears, mufflers pulled high over noses, and gloved fingers tucked away for warmth. I could feel the press of his body, hip to knee. 

"Sleep, Watson," he murmured. "I expect it will be another hour yet. I’ll wake you."

I had only know him a short while, but found myself incapable of refusing. I laid my head back and let my eyes drift closed.

I awoke to a gentle shake of my shoulder and a warm smile as he nodded at the docks signaling it was time.


	12. Violin torturing

* * *

I had fallen asleep to the sweet sounds of a simple waltz played so perfectly by Holmes on his violin. I dreamed of a glittering ball, a gloved hand in mind, and a trim waist to wrap my arm around. It was a thin body that pressed up against mine and I did not mind one bit that my feet weren’t tangling in skirts, but instead stepped crisply and cleanly with polished black dress shoes that matched my own. 

In my dreams we had danced all night under glittering lights, sipped champagne, and fumbled for each other in darkened corners, mouths hot and hands needy. It could not have been more perfect.

So it was quite a shock to be roused long before dawn by the screeching and scraping of a bow across strings in a manner that was surely designed to cause the most obnoxious noise at the loudest volume possible.

"I’m not sure who you’re trying to torture. Me or the violin." I mumbled into my pillow.

"Oh! Watson, you’re awake!" Holmes said, ceasing the noise at once and leaning forward. The violin dangled from his fingertips. His face was angular and his eyes sparkled in the wane light spilling in through my window.

"Yes," I groused. "As I am sure was your intention, I am in fact, awake."

"Excellent," he said.


	13. Disguises

* * *

"What in god’s name are you wearing?"

"A costume, Watson, to conceal my identity."

"I have so many questions and no idea where to begin."

"What are you doing?"

"Pinching myself, trying to wake up, this is most certainly a dream. It has to be a dream."

"I merely woke you to inform you that I may be gone for a number of days."

"Good lord, is that a shield? Are you carrying a shield?"

"It is. As I was saying, I am off to fight crime for the next fortnight, do not expect me for supper."

"You fight crime. With a shield. Dressed in that absolutely ridiculous ensemble."

"Yes. What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed. I’m coming with you. I cannot allow you to be out on your own in this condition." 

"You are not coming."

"You are MOST DEFINITELY not going."

"Watson - be reasonable."

"Reasonable? Holmes, you woke me in the middle of the night wearing a costume, carrying a shield, and informing me you are going to fight crime and you’re telling ME to be reasonable?"

I awoke with a start - disoriented from the rather strange dream. 

Holmes stepped out of the shadows dressed head to toe in all black, a white ‘H’ stitched onto the mask-and-cowell’s headpiece. He hefted a shield.

"What in god’s name-"


	14. War-related Nightmare

* * *

_Heat._

_Screams - horse and human._

_Blood. So much blood._

_The taste of gun powder and dirt, of fear and pain, of air heavy with death._

_The unrelenting pounding of guns, hooves, men._

_A searing pain in my shoulder and my leg._

I sat up, gasping, crying, shaking. The sounds and smells of Maiwand were fading, being replaced with the familiar comfort of freshly laundered bedsheets, coal embers glowing red, and the faintest lingering hint of sex.

"Holmes," I gasped.

"Watson," he whispered back. A strong arm wrapped around me.

I dropped my face into my hands. Just a nightmare.


	15. On-going Case Epiphany

* * *

I jerked awake, images from my dream so vivid I reached out for Sherlock laying beside me to ensure they weren’t real.

"Watson?" came his entirely-too-awake enquiry.

"It was the groom," I breathed aloud over the sound of my pounding heart. Sherlock reached out and patted my hip beneath the warm blanket on the narrow bed we shared.

"Of course it was," he replied. "But he was acting on orders from the trainer who stood to make a tidy sum betting against the odds-on favorite. Remarkable, just remarkable Watson."

"What is Holmes?"

"You," he murmured, "now go back to sleep."


	16. Mid-case Brainstorming

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes found his mind occupied by one of his little “brain puzzles” as he referred to them (I thought of them as “armchair cases” since he rarely left his armchair to solve them) there was often room for little else - sleeping, eating, etc.

Early in our association I would attempt to engage and respond to him, but I soon realized that he did not actually need me to respond, but rather would just as soon address his comments to his bedpost. Which suited me just fine - I was happy to serve as his bedpost.

I had eaten my dinner, read the evening paper, responded to my correspondence, and spent some time organizing our case notes all while he muttered, sulked, scratched at his violin, tossed papers about, and otherwise thought aloud with his whole body. The answer was absurdly simple.

Although Holmes was certainly the Great Deductionist - he also could be remarkably dense at times when it came to the simplest affairs. Especially those involving jilted lovers, jealous brothers, or thieving maids. He shook me awake last night after sitting beside me for hours, rambling all the while, still fully dressed, as I slumbered the night away and finally said, “it’s the footman.”

I simply responded, “no, it was the maid,” and promptly fell back asleep.


	17. Hiatus

* * *

The private carriage was courtesy Mycroft and the swathes of bandages and blankets insured our relative anonymity as we returned to London. Holmes had not regained true consciousness since I had found him splayed out on the rocks at the foot of the falls. I was a doctor and I knew what this meant - a brain injury of this scale. I could only hope that he would be one of the miracle cases, but the Sherlock Holmes as we knew him was dead.

We settled him in my home in Kensington - a sunny bedroom at the front of the house - and I began my vigil. My practice suffered greatly for the time I spent by his side. But I didn’t care for anything but my patient.

He began to slowly awaken from his coma. Confused, struggling to form words, and completely unaware of who or where he was. I would not give up. I would never give up for him. The pieces of his mind returned slowly.

I folded his hand around cups and encouraged him to drink. I read to him, endlessly, and wrote furiously by his side. But he seemed not to know me from anyone else.

Then one morning I awoke, a sore neck, stiff shoulder, and aching leg to the soft whisper of, “Watson?”


End file.
